


Unbecoming

by wargoddess



Series: Prompts [15]
Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Character(s) of Color, M/M, Mafia 3, Mafia III, POV Second Person, Racist Language, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: Lincoln & Donovan, in love and war.





	Unbecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cypheroftyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheroftyr/gifts).



> Warning for n-word and crude language.

     It's 1966.  Second tour.  One's enough for most, but not you; you're a goddamned glutton for punishment.  Or maybe it's not that at all.  Maybe it's that, here in this hot-ass country that reminds you entirely too much of the bayou back home, you've found yourself.  Here no one gets nervous at the sight of your big brown hands holding a gun or cleaning your very long, very sharp knife.  Here nobody's surprised or confused that you're good at strategy because _niggers ain't supposed to be smart_ \-- or at least, if they are surprised, they take another look at your knife and shut the fuck up.  Good either way.

     Here there's a CIA guy who keeps giving you the eye.  White -- not your usual type, but not bad either.  Little dude, compact.  Blond.  Chain smoker.  The red glow warms up the ice of his gaze.  It's just the two of you in this safehouse, which is really just the hut of a Vietcong whose body you've left on display down by the highway.  Cozy.  Boring.  You're sitting in the dark because there's no oil left in the lamp and your night vision is good enough.  The cigarette's glow reminds you of the river buoys back home.

     Yeah, all right then.  You get up, work your shoulders to stretch 'em out, and then you go over to CIA guy.  He utters a bitter little chuckle and stubs out his cigarette, so it's just the two of you and the dark for a while.

     You're good in the dark.  So's he.  It's all good.

#

     CIA guy's name is Donovan.  It's nothing for a while.  An operation, an execution, and then a few quiet hours in some dark place with your dick in his ass.  Or maybe your mouth's on his dick, or he's the one making the rickety old bed shiver and creak while he fucks you.  Doesn't matter.  It's all good.

     The operations pick up the pace, though.  Brass is planning something, looking for some way out of the quagmire.  Suddenly sex isn't enough; you start talking.  You tell him everything -- Sammy, Perla, Ellis, what it feels like to know nobody wants you and then to be loved.  Donovan laughs at this because he's an asshole.  But then, next time, after you're lying sticky and spent on top of him, he puts his arms around you.  It's too fucking hot and humid for that.  You start to pull away despite his arms and he says, "C'mon, stay here for a minute."  So you do.  He strokes your back, and the back of your neck.  He kisses your shoulder.

     That's... you don't know what it is.  But.  You stay.

     You stay like that all night.  It's too fucking hot.  But if a nigger from New Bordeaux can't take the heat, he's got no goddamn business being alive.

#

     He doesn't reciprocate with the background stuff.  Or rather, he says, "I had a generic white boy life until I decided to come over here and dismember little old ladies for my country," and really that's all you need to know.

     He does eventually tell you some things.  You'd guessed most of it.  Nice nuclear family, middle-class Black Irish, except somehow he ended up blond.  "Probably the fucking milkman's kid, my dad was so drunk most of the time that I'd be amazed if he ever got it up with Mom."  Went to Princeton, on scholarship no less.  That's when he started fucking guys.  "Goddamn useless-ass school wasn't even coed yet."  Got real good at dick-sucking in between advanced math and codebreaking theory.  Likes Muddy Waters.  "Figure I'd better enjoy him before some white asshole steals his shit and he dies penniless on the street." 

     It's all bullshit.  You know what you need to know about him:  that you can trust him with your life.  He knows all he needs to know about you:  that he can trust you with his.

     You're with him one night, fucking him good and slow.  He's on his knees in front of you, gripping the sheets, his breath so ragged that you know he's gonna come soon.  His dick is like silk over stone in your hand.  Feels good just stroking him.  You want him to come at the same time you do, because he claims it makes him so sensitive that he can actually feel you nutting.  You think he's full of shit, but you're working him to match up the timing anyway.  Controlling the field of play.  It's what you're good at.

     But then he shudders and moans a little -- neither of you are loud, loud motherfuckers don't last in this place -- and _you_ feel _him_ start up.  He clenches and you think you feel his balls doing something and Jesus _fuck_ it's good and all of a sudden you're bottomed out in him, coming with your blood pumping in your ears and your breath gone and your mind a single bright red glow, like a cigarette in the dark.

     You know you love him in this moment.

     When it's done and you've wiped your hand on the sheets and spooned him up -- he likes that, though he's never said so; you just know -- he laughs that soft bitter laugh of his, and says, "Tet Offensive's coming.  We're probably both going to die."

     "Yeah, probably," you say.  But you also hear what he hasn't said.

     You both survive.  That's it, then, you think.  But you're wrong about that, too.

#

     Donovan in New Bordeaux is restless, angrier than you remember, colder.  He smokes more, and his bitter little smiles are even more razor-edged.

     That's fine, though.  There's nothing good left inside you now, not with Sammy and Ellis dead.  Georgi Marcano shot the good out of you, leaving a furrow along your skull and shadows at the edges of your vision.  Do you still love Donovan?  Can you love anyone, anymore?  You're not sure.

     The rest is still good, though.  Better, here in your hometown, here in the Blue Gulf Hotel where the showers have hot water and you've got Vaseline instead of spit or soap or lard or whatever the fuck you could find in 'Nam that didn't have bugs in it.  Here you can suck him with an actual pillow under your knees, and fuck him even more gently, keeping him on edge for a good long time.  Here you can bite his skin and suck his pale little nipples and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.  You can _admire_ his cock, which is bigger than you expected

     ("You know what they say, once you go Black Irish you never go back."

     "Shut the fuck up, that doesn't even rhyme.")

     and beautifully curved, and which you love sucking and taking in your hands and lavishing with tenderness now that you have the time and means.

     He looks up at you when he's done.  Just looks, from amid the sweat- and Vaseline- and come-stained sheets.  It's not romantic or anything.  The cold of him has warmed and he isn't smiling, bitterly or otherwise.  It just makes him look human.  You lie down, and after a minute he turns over and snuggles back against you.  You spoon him up.  He likes that.

     You do, too.

#

     He doesn't tell you anything about the plan.  You don't need him to; by that point you're in control of half the Black Belt and not even the feds can touch you.  They send some pencildick to interrogate you -- balding guy, keeps mentioning the file he's got on you, clearly they don't teach FBI anything about intimidation techniques.  He asks where Donovan is and you say truthfully that you don't know.  He accuses you of lying.  You smile and say honestly that you didn't know Donovan was planning to shoot a goddamn senator, but if he did then the senator probably had it coming.  Pencildick nearly blows a gasket at that.

     It's hot as fuck that night.  Hot as fuck every night; this is New Bordeaux.  Still, this one's special.  This is the kind of night when you walk out onto the balcony of the Paradiso's penthouse and see a strange clarity to the air, and streaks of color across the sky like blood and bruising.  It's humid, and the air smells of the river.  In the distance barge-horns sound like saxophones being tuned before kicking up a slow secondline march.  You stand there in your suit-vest and dress sleeves, gazing at the city you now own, and the glow of the river buoys on the black water reminds you of a cigarette tip in the dark.

     Then the wind shifts and you smell smoke.  There's a step behind you -- deliberate, familiar, or of course you'd be turning already with your knife in your hand.  So now there's some little ex-CIA dude on the balcony with you, and he's giving you the eye.

     Yeah.  All right, then.  You turn and go over to him, and he utters a bitter little chuckle.  Maybe it's a little less bitter now.  "All good?" he asks.

     "Mmm-hmm," you say, and then it's just the two of you and the dark for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I wanted to write this in 2nd person. But I think it's that video game characters, in my mind, are always "you" to some degree.
> 
> This was kiiiiiinda done for a prompt, but only because I couldn't think of a good way to fulfill the actual prompt and I thought the prompt-ee might like this instead. Sorry, Cypher, for putting him in my favorite outfit instead of yours! The Shaft costume just didn't fit the mood.


End file.
